


a lover with disaster in his face

by schweet_heart



Series: Merlin Fic [99]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - World War I, Angst, Caring, Drunkenness, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Jealous Arthur, Jealousy, Literal Sleeping Together, M/M, Mutual Pining, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Prisoner of War, Promises, Psychological Trauma, Reunions, Sleepiness, Tenderness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-17
Updated: 2018-01-17
Packaged: 2019-03-06 02:04:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13401138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/schweet_heart/pseuds/schweet_heart
Summary: WW1 AU. It’s early evening by the time Merlin washes up in Arthur’s tent, staggering a little as he ducks out from under Gwaine’s affectionate arm. Everything about him seems slightly off-balance, and it takes Arthur a moment to realise that this is because Merlin himself is listing—not tipsy, but close to it, drunk with the relief of a soldier who is finally safe and sound.Sequel toArms and the Boy.





	a lover with disaster in his face

**Author's Note:**

> Title from _[Ancient History](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/43172/ancient-history)_ by Siegfried Sassoon.

 

It’s early evening by the time Merlin washes up in Arthur’s tent, staggering a little as he ducks out from under Gwaine’s affectionate arm. Everything about him seems slightly off-balance, and it takes Arthur a moment to realise that this is because Merlin himself is listing—not tipsy, but close to it, drunk with the relief of a soldier who is finally safe and sound.

 

“You took your time,” Arthur says, folding his arms. “How did you come, by way of Australia?”

 

“I was waylaid,” Merlin says, with a smirk at Gwaine. “The boys wanted to give me a proper welcome back.”

 

Gwaine grins back at him, open and uncomplicated, and leans in to give Merlin a sloppy kiss on the cheek, which makes Merlin laugh and push him away. Arthur’s gut tightens at the ease of the exchange, the knot of tension at the base of his skull ratcheting higher. He’s been a useless wreck all day, waiting for Merlin to walk in so that they can _talk_ for the first time in an age, but Merlin has apparently felt no such desire to speak to him; he clearly hasn’t even given a thought to Arthur since he got back.

 

“You do realise you’re supposed to report to me _before_ you go out drinking,” Arthur says, keeping his tone dry. “As your commanding officer, I should really write you up for dereliction of duty.”

 

“Aw, come on, Princess, don’t be like that.” Gwaine ruffles Merlin’s hair so violently that he nearly stumbles again, and Arthur wonders briefly if he's going to need to catch him. “Let the kid celebrate a little. It’s not every day a man comes back from the dead.”

 

“I suppose I can overlook it just this once.” He knows his voice is cold by the way Merlin’s expression falls, but Gwaine, thank god, seems largely oblivious. “But I do need to speak with you before you turn in, Merlin, just to get all your paperwork squared away. Greene, you’re dismissed.”

 

“Sir, yes, sir!” Gwaine lifts his hand in a sloppy salute and, with another leering glance at Merlin, saunters away, leaving the two of them alone. Merlin just stands where he was left, swaying slightly, and in the gathering twilight his cheerful demeanour seems to have ebbed, leaving behind an unfamiliar face that is marked with shadows. He's not drunk, it seems, he's just exhausted, and Arthur's stomach twists with something that is entirely different from anger.

 

“Sit down,” he says quietly. “You look just about all in.”

 

“I’m all right,” Merlin says, but he sits regardless, sinking onto Arthur’s tiny cot like it’s a feather mattress from the finest French hotel. “Better now that I’m back here, although I never thought I’d ever say that.” His head is hangs low over his knees, long arms dangling. Despite the youth of his face he seems suddenly very old and very tired, like a condemned man with his neck bared for the noose. “I’m all right,” he repeats, and Arthur has to shove his hands behind his back against the desire to touch. 

 

“You’re not all right,” he says with certainty. “No, don’t deny it. You look like the walking dead. Take off your boots.”

 

Merlin just looks at him, uncomprehending, and with a put-upon sigh Arthur crosses the tent to do it for him, kneeling without hesitation at Merlin’s feet. He ends up having to use his knife to get them off, as the boots are caked with dried mud and gore and god knows what else, and when he finally manages to free Merlin from the warped leather casings the other man lets out a sigh that is closer to a moan.

 

“Better?”

 

“Mm. But you’ve ruined my boots.”

 

Arthur ducks his head over a smile. “I’ll find you another pair.” He takes Merlin’s feet in hand and swings them up onto the bunk so that he’s able to stretch out along the mattress, pulling the thin blanket over him in a mockery of parental protectiveness. The temptation to crawl in beside him, even just to sleep, is almost irresistible. “You need to rest.”

 

Merlin opens one eye to frown at him. “I can’t take your bed, Arthur.”

 

“You can,” Arthur contradicts him. “And you can get some bloody rest so I don't have to haul you back to the barracks like a sack of potatoes. I can put up with sleeping on the floor for a few hours—Lord knows, I’ve fallen asleep in worse places. Just don’t expect to get used to it.” 

 

Merlin smiles slightly, his eyes slipping closed again, and for a moment Arthur just watches him, sitting back on his haunches in the dirt to look. It’s strange, really, how easy this all is, as if Merlin had been gone for only a day instead of several months. The ache of his absence, however, still sits heavy in Arthur’s gut, as does the emptiness of knowing he would never see him again.

 

“Merlin.”

 

“Hmm?” Merlin’s hand stretches out, sleepy and groping, and comes to rest on Arthur’s face. “Wha’sit?”

 

“I thought,” Arthur whispers, but doesn’t finish, hearing the bewilderment and loss in his own voice, feeling himself choke on it. Merlin’s hand slides lower, his palm fitting tight along the curve of Arthur’s neck as he pulls Arthur’s head down to his chest. 

 

“I would never,” he murmurs into Arthur’s hair. “I swear, I’d never.”

 

Arthur breathes a shaky laugh in answer. “That isn’t up to you.”

 

“Maybe not. But—not like that. Not in some stupid shell crater or anonymous hospital bed without a word to anyone.” He strokes his fingers along the ridge of Arthur’s spine, under the collar of his shirt. “I won’t leave you alone like that.”

 

Arthur nods into his shoulder and holds on, willing for the moment to believe that promises here have power; that the two of them can somehow cling together despite the many forces determined to tear them apart. Outside the tent, the nocturnal sounds of the war, the army, and the world go on unimpeded. Merlin’s breathing steadies and then deepens, turning soft and sweet as he falls asleep. 


End file.
